


Giving In

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Mycroft in his suits, Mycroft too stiff, No Sex, Questions, a water gun fight, always afraid of feelings, both men unsure, dinners out, eating with fingers, swanky restaurants, undertones of what?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21649648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Giving in is so hard for Mycroft
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 29
Kudos: 38





	1. The beginning

My private jet lands on time in England; my car waits. Anthea, my assistant, has taken care of all the trivial details. While sitting in my parlor, I sift through my mail. Invitations to dinners and lunches. So very tiresome! So very boring. I find it almost the same at my office. So many people presuppose that a dinner or lunch engagement is a ripe opportunity for asking for favors. ‘Just a small favor--or only this once.’ My financials for my business trip to Austria was complete. Having everything computerized nowadays is so much simpler than years ago. Anthea steps in and notices my scowl and puckers her lips. “What is bothering you, Mycroft? You haven’t been yourself since stepping off the plane.”  
“I’ve no enthusiasm at the moment. Not the usual appetite to continue my work which I normally encounter once home from these conferences,” I sigh, push away from my desk.  
“Time for a hobby, Mister MI-6. Get out and do something with yourself other than work, work.” Her tallness accented by the high heel shoes she loves to wear. “You like solving puzzles, why not take the day off. Go to New Scotland Yard and see what the Detective Inspector is doing. You’ve always admired him.” Picking my coat off the hook, she tosses it on the desk, and remarks, “Get out! Go! There’s nothing here that can’t wait. Sit in the park and feed the damn pigeons for all I care. But get out!” She strides out the door, slamming it shut, and leaves me to contemplate my next move. Neither the park nor a visit to the NSY stimulates my tired mind. I’m stymied.  
Ah well, Mycroft, and I exhale, push the chair away from the mahogany desk, take my coat and my umbrella, and proceed to the car.

* * *

My driver, Henry, who’s been in my employ for almost thirteen years, sits and waits. My mouth opens, closes, and opens again. Henry looks into the rearview mirror.“Where to Mister Holmes?” his query only serving to perplex me more. “Where to? Good question, Henry. I presume Scotland Yard to be the place.” It’s rare when I falter in my decision making. Lately, my secluded existence has been the point in question. I’m more inclined to squirm, to shift in my seat, or stride up and down a room craving a different lifestyle. What variety, what description eludes me.

* * *

The station house is seemingly tranquil. No uproar other than a few phones that ring or the click of keyboards.

Inspector Gregory Lestrade is surprised and looks at me and says, “Lookie who’s here?” with a tinge of good humor, “slumming, I suppose?”  
He stands to walk around his desk, hand out. I grip it, warm, pleasant to my touch.  
“Have a chair and tell me what I’m to expect from Mycroft Holmes.” He sits on the edge of the desk, his body trim for his fifty years, and dangles a foot in front.  
I grimace. “I’m not sure.” I surprise myself with this admission.  
Lestrade cocks his head to the side, his demeanor now serious.“A problem, Mister Holmes? Can I help?”  
I clear my throat, and blurt out, “would you join me for dinner tomorrow night?”  
A huge laugh from the detective’s mouth.“Are you kidding, Mycroft? Dinner with you? What would have in common? To discuss,” and as he laughs, he's slapping his thigh.  
I stand, wincing, and place my hands in my coat pockets and step outside. I hear the running of feet behind me, and the shout, “wait, wait, Mycroft.” Lestrade grabs me by the arm, preventing me from moving further towards the car.

“God, I’m so sorry! That was rude of me. Of course, I’d love to be with you, dinner or not. Can you forgive me?” Whatever made me so rude? This is not my manner of dealing with people. Inwardly I wince. Something special about the man standing near has confused me. I feel like a little kid, scraping my foot on the ground, at a loss for words, and embarrassed when I do say anything. He places his hand on top of mine, pats it gently.  
Softly he replies, "Dinner at six? My car will pick you up at your house.”  
“No, not a good idea. Six at the station, good?” Lestrade says.  
“That is acceptable.” Ready to manipulate my testy self into the car, I call out, "wear a suit,” and slam the door before he can reconsider. For some inexplicable reason, my timepiece became a matter of importance during the day. No matter how much I stare at it, the time wouldn't advance any faster.  
As per my usual course of action when I had to make an acquaintance with another individual, I research their background.

* * *

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was the oldest and only son of four children. It was a low-income family that saw both parents that had to work, sometimes double shifts. In charge of caring for his sisters, Lestrade also worked after school in any capacity available. In secondary school, he graduated with top honors and admitted to the police academy. Once a police officer, he worked as many shifts as was allowed and gained notoriety as an honest, energetic man. His rise to Detective Inspector was swift. He met his wife Beverly while in the academy, and within four months, she became pregnant. She and the detective married, and they quickly had another girl. The union turned sour. Beverly began a string of affairs, while Lestrade steadfastly turned a blind eye and remained loyal. Nowhere in his dossier did it state that he was ever interested in the male gender.

* * *

My fingers slip as I button my shirt. I stand like a soldier, stiffly in front of the mirror, twisting and turning, evaluating the Mycroft Holmes seen in the reflection. I’m just a little above six feet, and I’ve kept a slender constitution because I’ve shown restraint in my eating habits. My hair has begun to thin at the top; my features resemble my mother’s family. Sharp and angular.

* * *

This evening should be as typical as the other countless dinners I’ve had with princes and ambassadors, and even the Queen. But, I’m unwilling, also alarmed, to admit it to myself. It is different. The slight tremor in my stomach indicates an apprehension, a wariness.

* * *

“Oh, this is nice,” the detective says, once he’s settled in the car, patting the leather. “I never dreamed I’d be driven to dinner in such splendor. How was your day?” he says, with a bright smile.  
“Like any other. Quantities of paperwork, phone calls, and the subduing of the many different personalities, detective.”  
“Please, call me Greg. After all, I do call you Mycroft.”

* * *

Mycroft enters first and nods his head to the maitre de. “Follow me, Mister Holmes. Your table is ready for you, sir.”  
We follow the tuxedoed man to a secluded corner of the room, and the waiter pulls out our chairs; our menus handed to us. White gloved, morning coats, the smell, the subdued quietness enhances the luxuriance, the affluence.  
“We’ll have the lamb and the Tramin Nussbaumer Gewurztaminer wine, please. And Benjamin, what is the dessert for tonight?”  
“Tarte Tatin,” bowing,” and Strawberry Savarin.”  
I’m aware that Gregory is ill at ease, and I recite the ingredients to the desserts, “Tarte is an apple tart, and the savarin is a strawberry cake. Which would you prefer?”  
“You decide,” he states, his head swiveling surreptitiously around, absorbing the trappings.  
“Benjamin, bring out both, please.”  
The detective is preoccupied with his thoughts, taking minutes to turn to me and say, “Hmm. I take it this is your standard, everyday restaurant?”  
“Have I misjudged?” Perplexed, a growing concern that I’ve been in error.  
“No, no,” he exclaims, “ I’ve never been to such a posh place for any reason. Holiday, graduation, or anything. It’s--it’s a bit overwhelming for a chap like me.”  
My chair now partially pushed away from the table, I answer, “we can withdraw right now, and it won’t be an issue.”  
His hand reaches out to stop my further movement. “Stop, Mycroft. I’m perfectly happy to be here. It’s just--so--different. It’s almost taking my breath away. The silverware, for instance. Gold?” holding up a fork and waving it.  
“Gregory, we can go—.”  
His blue eyes crinkle at the corners, sparkling, “not on your life. I will drink in every moment and enjoy it.”  
He watches me closely and takes into account the way manner in which I eat. From the wine and the way I sip it to each utensil and its use.

* * *

During the meal, there is no dialogue. It becomes apparent that I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been good at small talk. He becomes excited when I question him about the police station and its function. His hands are waving, his head moving side to side, he’s the antithesis of how I would react. I can’t discuss my professional enterprises. Secrecy holds me back. I’m insecure. How do we interact with each other?

The meal over and Gregory moves in his chair and reaches into his pocket for his wallet. My hand goes out, stopping his gesture.  
“No, please. I invited you out. They have my credit card listed,” rising and waiting for him to do likewise I take note of his long legs.

* * *

Staring outside as the car swerves in and out of the London traffic, my shoulders tense. I’m certain of the knowledge of this disastrous evening. My mouth, seemingly involuntarily blurts out, “Gregory, would you contemplate another evening out?” my gloved hand unintentionally going to my face.  
“Why not? I’m free most evenings unless we have a catastrophe out on the streets. You pick it.”

* * *

Twice I send a text for a night out. And twice, I am rejected. Too busy is his response. Do I give credence to his word? Is he indifferent to me?

* * *

A cool but sunny Saturday morning has me pacing in my office, my desk neat and the rest of the day looming large. I’m weary with the nothingness of my singleness, my aloneness. Picking up my mobile, I punch the number for Gregory’s office.  
“Mycroft, what's up?” his voice, animated, has my mouth turning up with a brief smile.  
“Detective Inspector, I thought--,”  
“Please stop being so formal. It’s Greg,” and pausing, “ Tell you what! If there are no crises in the nation, why not stop by the station? Maybe you can help me with a case or two, and then we can grab a bite to eat.”  
“Agreeable.”  
“Oh, and Mycroft. Lay off the big car. I get too many snickers from my crew.”

With no intention of sitting in a taxi, I tell Henry to pull over before my final destination and walk to the NSY.

* * *

Gregory is out of his office in the main precinct room. I’m unsure whether to advance to his space or wait. Biding my time I glance at the area, at the desks, the working people, hearing the dim voices, the light clatter of computer keyboards.  
The man himself has his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hair rumpled, all the while talking, gesturing to a policewoman. She stares politely, nodding her head. He acknowledges me with a nod, hands a sheet of paper to the woman, stepping away from her.  
“Glad you came. Come into my office.” Taking my arm, he swiftly maneuvers us into the open door of his private room. As neat and sterile as my office is, Gregory is the opposite. His bookshelves not only house various legal publications but papers, portfolios, potted plants, and several painted statues of animals. One window has its blinds drawn up while the other is crookedly somewhere in the middle.  
We both take seats, he behind his desk and I roll mine up close opposite him.  
He passes a green folder across the desk to me. I take a moment to read, while furtively scanning the man behind the desk. His hair, a silver-grey, messed up from his constant fingering, is still full for a man in his fifties. The shirt, a green plaid is unbuttoned and reveals wisps of black and grey hair. My heart turns an extra beat contemplating his breast.  



	2. Mycrofts Reasoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what is he thinking? Does he have to change?

“ What do you make of this,” he states, leaning back in his seat.“ It just came to my attention this morning. I haven’t had the time to look it over.”  
“Gregory, I know Bennett Willington.”  
“Good,” off his seat and motioning for me to follow.“Let’s go together then. He might be more talkative with you around.”  
“My car would be more suitable. A police wagon in front would be too conspicuous.” Following him out the door, “I guess you’re right.”  
It won’t take long to call Henry.”  
“The police have already talked to him, but you’re right.”

“Mister Holmes. Good to see you. What are you doing here?” he shakes my hand using his two hands.  
“Bennett, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I presented myself at his office just as he was investigating your case and asked to accompany him here. If you wish, I can leave.”  
“Not at all. Do stay.” Turning to the Inspector. “Bennett Willington, Inspector,” this time a vigorous handshake with only the one hand.

The house is large and exquisitely furnished. Mister Willington is a minor government official and unobtrusive in his work. Never a person known for being ostentatious; he is bald and heavy-set. He loves strong cigars and always has two in his jacket pocket. He was married for many years, his wife dying of cancer, his only son married with no children and lives in Scotland.  
“You discovered the robbery of the jewelry this morning. Tell us the details please,” the detective says, sitting and waiting until the tea is on the table and poured.  
“I’ve kept all my wife’s things where they always were, in her bedroom.” He picks at his fingernails, “we began sleeping in separate rooms during her sickness.”  
“How long has she been gone,” the detective asks.  
“She died almost three years ago. And I’ve only begun to think about tearing apart her room and paraphernalia. Doing it on my own as my son and I are,” and he stops, looks down at his hands, fidgets, “not conversing.”  
Still looking at his fingernails, he carries on. “I woke, had breakfast, and decided to begin with her bedroom today. Make a good sweep of it if you understand me.”  
Gregory and I both nod our heads.  
“I stepped into her room. It looked the same, took a breath, and the first place I went to was her closet. She was not a clothes horse, and even though I wanted to turn her closet into a walk-in by breaking down--.”  
Gregory leans forward and breaks off Bennett’s sentence by saying, “When you opened the door, did you notice anything unusual?”  
“Yes. A pair of her gloves lying on the floor. Estelle was always clean and would never have left them there. They were her grey ones with--.”  
This time I interrupt, “what else out of the ordinary did you see?”  
“Nothing until I took out one of her jewelry boxes. That was a fault of hers. She loved jewelry. The box was empty. I took out another, and it was the same. And no, not the servants. They’ve been with me for years.”  
Something niggles at my memory. “The falling out with--Michael. What was it about?”  
And the man squirms.  
Gregory leans forward, but I lift my hand off the arm of the chair to break off his interrogation.  
“Bennett. There were once rumors, oh, many years ago before you and Estelle married,” I say gently.  
Again the man squirms in his seat and reaches for his hand and examines it. As if it would tell the story.  
“Mycroft. Could I speak to you--alone,” murmuring to his hands.  
Gregory is shaking his head no but, “ Inspector, would you mind giving us a moment, please?”  
Sighing, he stands. “ This is not a good idea, but okay. I’ll be outside the room.”  
“I’m going to have something to drink. I need it.” Bennett walks to the sideboard and pours a glassful of brandy, sits down after quaffing most of it.  
“Before I met Estelle, I was a--pleasure seeker. To make the story short, I was once arrested for indecent exposure. Caught in the park, taking my gratification with a man. My father paid off the boys’ parents. I tried to explain that the fellow consented, but it was all my fault. I was older and should know better. He even punched me a few times until I ran up to my room. My mother never knew. I told her I had fallen. That’s when I knew I had to keep my emotions under check and married Estelle. ”  
My eyes continue to keep in contact without exhibiting the emotion that is stirring within me.  
“Why don’t we invite the Inspector back into the room? It’ll be all over the media anyway,” he mutters, and opens the door, beckoning Gregory in.  
Bennett carries on with his account. “I was sitting on her bed, the two jewelry boxes on my lap, and I guess I was babbling loud enough that my housekeeper, walking by, heard me. Apparently, she heard me muttering about being robbed.”  
Gregory leans forward, “but you know who took the jewelry, don’t you?”  
His brandy glass in hand, he drinks, “Yes. It was my son Michael.”  
“Addict?” Gregory drawls, all too familiar with this type of scenario.  
Bennett shakes his head, his fingers flexing, and avoiding any eye contact. He presses his lips together, as though to hold in his words.  
And then he sighs, many sighs.“Mycroft, don’t hate me please,” sudden tears falling.  
What is he inferring? Why would I be antagonistic toward him?  
“I’m gay.” And burst into tears, the glass falling to the floor as he grabs his face.  
Gregory leans over and hands him his handkerchief. With a calm, non-judgmental voice, “what has that to do with the robbery?”  
His face pale, Bennett says while staring at the floor. “I had been a faithful husband, even though I knew that it was men I preferred. I did love Estelle, and she never knew my inclination. I was too scared to do anything anyway. About eight years ago, I met someone, A man. We tried so hard to avoid each other, but it was no use. He is a widow. Last year, and I have no idea how Michael found out. He was disgusted, furious, and threatening.” Stopping to wipe his face, he stands and walks to the window to look out upon a garden. He turns to face us, a small smile on him, his chin comes up; his chest is out. “Wilber and I will continue no matter what anyone thinks.”  
Covering up my insecurities, the warmth of the room changes. Becoming cooler. It’s not the same, I think. It’s not the same. We’re not the same.  
“I know it was Michael,” Bennett continues, a bit more sure of himself, “ because he vowed not to allow me any of his mother’s possessions. I don’t know why he had to sneak in, but it was him. I would not have called your department at all Inspector, but--.”  
“Under these extraordinary circumstances,” I have to interject, and looking at Gregory, I say, “ I would imagine the detective could eliminate any reference to this event. Am I right?” inwardly wincing. It could be me, could be my shame.  
Gregory steps toward Bennett and hugs him. Bennett is startled but responds in kind.  
“You’re fine,” patting Bennett on the back. “We’ll forget the whole thing.”  
“Thank you, sir. I am going to give everything of Estelles to my son and tell him that’s it done between us.”  
“Bennett, don’t be too heartless with your son. Give him the option to accept your situation. You might find him okay with it,” the detective says, his voice tinged with kindness.  
Shaking hands with Bennett, I feel a rapport, a connection. Still, though, there's unease, an undercurrent that stems from the way Gregory has reacted.

Once outside the air, the chilly London atmosphere refreshes me. Gregory has already signaled a taxi, and, stepping in, he says, “I know I good place for a quick lunch.” We stop, he insists on paying and on the sidewalk he moves towards a small cafe.  
No maitre de, no waiter to escort us to our seats. The waiter appears, and Gregory waves away the menus, and instead, he utters, “two fish and chips and two beers please.”  
Aghast at the prospect of consuming those greasy, unwholesome, what the general public considers a snack food, I’m ready to contradict the order but stop. I must learn to give in, to be conscious of Gregory's way of life.  
While waiting for our food Gregory brings up the subject of Bennett, as I suspected he would  
“What do you think, my friend? Could you, if you were so inclined, come out to everyone?”  
“It would never occur to me to conceive of such a situation.” All the while being aware of what’s behind those words.  
“But, if you could,” he persists, taking up his water glass, his eyes never leaving mine.  
“Gregory, I cannot speculate on what I do not know.”  
Gregory huffs and reaches for my hand.  
I wrench it out of his reach as if a wolf were about to chomp down. A shudder runs through my body, clearly visible.  
“Yea, I guess that’s an untouchable subject, also.” His hand reaching for his napkin, grimacing, leaning back as if to be unattainable.  
Bitterness at my inability to articulate my feelings, I grasp my napkin, snapping it open, and feel safe at the thought of carrying this no further.  
The servings, two large battered fish, have been laid in a napkin in a wicker basket, with the chips arranged haphazardly next to the basket. On the side of the plate near the chips is a white sauce in a paper cup. A glass pitcher holds the beer, and the waiter lays two plain glasses on the table.  
“I don’t know about you, but I like the malt vinegar with my fish.” Holding up the bottle and shaking it lavishly on the fish.  
He stops, puts the bottle back down, and regards me. I haven’t moved my hands from my lap.  
“Oh my! You’ve never had fish and chips. Right?” The mischievous grin hides the laughter that begins to bubble. He squelches it.  
“First, dip your fork into the sauce to taste it. It’s horseradish and cream. Give it a try. And, now that I’ve put the malt vinegar on my fries try one of them.”  
I follow his instructions.“Both are pleasing to the palate.”  
Picking up the fish with his fingers, “now dip the fish and eat,” and takes a bite.  
Mycroft, you have no choice. I gingerly, between my thumb and index finger, lift the breaded fish and cautiously lower the piece into the white sauce. Taking care to nibble only the tiniest bit, I chew. And I like it!  
The detective’s snigger at my widened eyes as the second bite enters my mouth is heaven to hear.  
“You like it.” A statement, not a question. Lifting the pitcher, he lets flow the brew into both of our glasses and raises his, “to fish and chips. And to our --friendship.”  
I lift mine, and glasses touch. Was the slight pause deliberate? Was there more significance to his words?  
“Mister Holmes, you are a problem for me,” he declares after sufficiently having taken a few bites.  
“Why should I be a problem?” shaking the malt vinegar onto some chips.  
He chews, chews some more, and after swallowing, he says, rather quietly, “I don’t know what to make of you, how you react to me at certain times. Am I reading you wrong? No, let me phrase it differently. Is it something more than a friendly get together for you?”  
My body stiffens, my brow furrows, and I cannot rightly answer.  
Gregory sighs and bends against the back of the seat, grimacing. “Let’s drop it. I’m sorry I questioned you on this. Forget it,” while he lifts his glass and guzzles his beer, refilling it more than this second time.  
I don’t know how to pursue any other line of discourse and remain quiet. There is no more communication between us, and, walking out the door, Gregory stares at his phone. “Hey,” he says, “ I forgot that I need to help out one of my sergeants. Let’s call it a day, okay?” Without another word, not even a shake of hands, he walks away.  
Wetting my lips, vacillating as to whether to give chase or refrain, I choose the latter and call my driver.

Days later, uncertain, wavering back and forth, I refuse to call the detective. It’s best to leave well enough alone. But, self-doubt haunts me.

It’s early afternoon, and I find myself staring into space rather than concentrating on anything. Enough of this nonsense, and snatching my coat and umbrella, call for my car. As I gaze out the window at the passing of people, the shops, the ordinary everyday conditions that most take for granted, none of it registers. The drive is meaningless as there is no destination. Why? “Henry, take me home, please.”  
Hanging my coat up, I need to hear a friendly voice. Who? There’s only one I would want to give an audience to. Gregory Lestrade.

“Gregory, I have become conscious of the fact that I have monopolized our evening engagements. Would you pick our next restaurant?”  
“Really?” I hear an intake of breath over the speaker, “Tomorrow is the last night of our bowling league. We aren’t anywhere near winning,” pausing, “so, let me take you out for Italian food? Why don’t you meet me at Longo’s at nine?”  
“That’s good.”  
“Meet me inside. And Mycroft, no suit, please,” and with no further comment, no engaging interchange, he discontinues the call. My heart feels itself shrink. My shoulders droop, and I slump into the sofa. No suit, he said. Gregory Lestrade, can you fathom at all that in my extensive wardrobe I have only my tailor-made suits?  
Black trousers, although bespoke, are on my body. Shirt? A dark blue--no, a light blue is more appealing to the eye. Not as somber. Tie or no tie? No tie. Do I leave a button open at the neck? One or two? One is--no let me undo the second, clumsy at the deed.

I’m at the Italian establishment before Gregory and the first waiter to acknowledge me I begin, “Reservations for--,” I stop. No idea under whose name it is.  
“Sir, you don’t need reservations for this time of night.”  
There are eight tables, each clad in a faded white cloth, each holding a salt and pepper shaker, and a vase with a single flower--plastic. The walls are orange, decorating the walls are pictures, printed, of landscapes. I ask the waiter, “What kind of wine do you have,” looking at his face.“Sir, we have a cabernet and sauvignon tonight.”  
Gregory enters and chooses to sit across from me instead of beside myself.“What is your wine preference, Gregory?”  
“Actually, I’d like a cola, please. But whatever you want to drink, go ahead.”  
I hesitate, ask for a glass of white wine. My heart has bounced, no galloped as Gregory sat. Yes, it is pleasurable to have him as a friend.

I’ve had limited experience with friends. Most people bore me with the chatter of their menial lives. But I discover that I listen intently to any of Gregory’s idle talk.  
“This place has the greatest veal dishes. I would suggest the scallopini,” he relates without examining the menu.  
I pick up the plastic menu warily. It’s two pages covered by a yellowing plastic. The food could not conceivably be fresh.

The beverages served, the dinner ordered, Gregory begins with a very animated a blow by blow account of his bowling night.  
“I’m sorry if I do not take part in this conversation. I never have—.” I’m flustered, feeling not in control. Always at the helm of any intercourse, I am unsettled. The plastic flower on the tablecloth, a yellow jonquil, has become my focus of attention.  
“Oh, yes. You don’t partake in sports. I’m sorry. I thought you’d be interested in what I do. At least—.”  
I scramble to alleviate his distress and cover his hand with mine, “ I’m the person who should be apologetic.” I can feel his pulse, and it races up my arm to my heart. His is beating quite fast.  
He points with his other hand, mine still being on top of his other. “I like the new look for you. No jacket and no tie, and--.” He colors up, “unbuttoned shirt. A bit off-color for you, isn’t it?”  
Quickly I withdraw my hand and feel my cheeks flaming, my eyes not engaging his.  
“I’ve finished reading the Stephen King book The Stand. Is that something in your repertoire?” the police officer breaks the stiffness, the discomfort we are both experiencing.  
“I have read it, but long ago.”

We keep up a surprising exchange of words during the meal. I lose all perception of time.  
Saying goodnight is distressing. It takes a profusion of restraint not ask him in for a drink. I undress, find comfort in bed, and review the experience of this night. Enthralling and intriguing. Pure pleasure.


	3. Greg's Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does Greg feel about Mycroft?

He thinks we are worlds apart. He’s uncomfortable out of his little sphere. He’s afraid of the unexpected. He’s a lonely person, and when confronted outside his comfort zone, he runs. Mycroft Holmes is a puzzle. Remarkably intelligent with a dry sense of humor. Very dry.

Why then, Gregory Lestrade, do you contemplate an acquaintanceship? Never mind an intimacy far beyond anything you’ve ever experienced. Familiarity with a male? Never!  
But there’ll be his smirk, the turn of his head, his tone of voice. When that occurs, I fill with tenderness toward him and sympathy for his position.  
His world is over the top. So upscale that it has my brain spinning most of the time.

It’s a cool but sunny afternoon, and without giving it a rational thought, I’m standing, bouncing on my feet, in Mycroft’s office. “Are you busy, because this is just a social call.” Balancing on my toes, ready to leave.  
“No, no. Just let me clear up this last item. Would you like tea while you wait? I have to drop these,” he picks up documents, “on Anthea’s desk. She needs to review them.”  
I sit in the armchair and say that he could take his time and tea is not essential  
It gives me a chance to look at his luxurious office. The modernity is not what I expect from Mycroft Holmes.  
The carpet is thick, toe digging thick, and the color is a light tan. Each of the armchairs and the sofa is a dark tan leather. A multicolored crocheted blanket sits folded atop the arm of the couch. I wonder if it’s handmade and who did it.  
No windows but an overhead light and many lamps keep the room illuminated brightly. Three walls are bookshelves; each is almost full. All neatly arranged.  
Behind the wall of Mycroft's desk hangs a painting of him, his parents, and his younger brother. It must have been posed for when Mycroft was in his twenties.  
My curiosity gets to me, and I stand and look at the titles of the books. Mostly volumes and volumes of law books. But, one shelf, in particular, surprises me. Science fiction, horror, and the classics.  
A rustle of air signals the door opening, and Mycroft enters, noticing where I’m looking, and clears his throat. “Anything you want to borrow? Be my guest.”  
I have to smile, rustling the pages of a book I had in my hands and smiling I respond, “I’m startled that someone like you would read anything other than deep, penetrating publications. I would have thought that these would be, what’s the word, trashy.” My arm waves at the horror and science fiction.  
Mycroft removes his jacket, carefully sits it on the back of a chair, and, with a smug look, replies, “just because I’m a proud pretentious old goat doesn’t mean I can’t take joy in some simpler peculiarities. You know, Mister Detective Inspector, there are two sides to every person.” He exhales, minutely shakes his head.  
“And, Mister You are the Government, it’s this other side I’d love to know better. Care to show me around your playful side?”  
He seems almost to be pulling himself together, to find the right words. He stares at the carpet while I hold my breath. Did I say too much?  
“I cannot conceive of any way to display my playful side, as you call it.” Rubbing his chin, he purses his lips in thought. “How does one go about processing this.” Sliding his body into a chair, contemplating his shoes.  
It was not a question for me to answer.  
I ask him, changing the subject, “Your name must have been a hardship for you as a child. What was the reason you got that moniker?”  
He straightens up, taking a deep breath, glad to be on safe ground.  
“My father’s family has prided themselves in conferring unusual names for their sons. My father’s name is Siger. In the literal sense, Mycroft means a small field by a stream or a small stream. I’m named after my father’s oldest brother. He died as a teen. Kicked in the head by a horse.”  
I hum in understanding, and then say, “as for myself, my mother liked the name. No other reason. As the oldest and the male, I always had the job of protecting my younger sisters. By the time I was in my early teens, I was a street kid. Always eager for a fight, always almost at the edge of trouble.” I rub my neck while my mind races. I must keep this going. To get closer to the inside of this man.  
Mycroft sits up stiffly.“Our family has had money for generations. We were teased not only for our names but because we were a learned family. No silly games, no running about to kick up our heels. Nursery rhymes for us consisted of science and history.”  
He gives the impression, even now of being constrained. So fearful of letting his guard down. His body is unbending and afraid of relaxing with me.  
“ You know I have high regard for you, Mycroft. But, I’d still love to see that playful side.”  
He tilts his body forward, taps his fingers on the arm of the chair, “Why? What does it matter to you?”  
I cannot directly answer that because I’m afraid it would show my affection. And it’s too soon.  
Something in the way he is sitting. Trying to get closer, to understand what is my interest in him has me willing to try.  
“Would you be willing to engage in something you’ve never done before?”  
His eyes squint, he lays back in the chair, his arms are crossed over his chest, one leg on top of the other. He’s terrified now.  
I lean in towards him. “Have you ever wrestled? I don’t mean organized wrestling. Just plain wrestling with another guy. Or how about tossing a basketball into a hoop? Or playing with water guns?”  
He trembles. His body language suggesting that none of these are appealing.  
“I recently spent the day in the park shooting water guns with two of my co-workers and their kids. What great fun we all had.”  
Before he can speak, I carry on talking. “ I know this Sunday is supposed to be a warm, sunny day. I still have the water guns, and you have a big yard. And I’ll let you supply lunch. What about it?”  
He frowns, sneers, and in his best-appalled voice, “Water guns? Me?” Runabout like a child? No,” he abruptly stands, and I have to rush to him, placing a hand gently on his arm  
“Have a go at it. For me, Mycroft.”  
“I don’t have proper clothing. I don’t--.” his head sinking into his chest.  
“Any old clothing will be good. If you don’t have any, then let me buy you something. I’ll bring a change for myself because I suspect we’ll both get soaking wet,” said with a chuckle. Hoping to break the uneasiness, I know he’s feeling. I want to plant a kiss on his cheek. I’m so thrilled. He’s willing to try. Sunday can’t come quick enough.


	4. Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Greg and Mycroft have to come to a decision. How will it end?

What idiocy have I conceded to? Early on in my career, I was trained as a sniper I’ve used pistols and heavy weaponry. Technically I am an assassin.   
After I sift through my clothes for something appropriate, I accept defeat and wear trousers and a shirt.  
Gregory carries two brown bags and a box labeled from a chocolatier. Under his arm, he’s carrying two large obscenely bright orange and blue rifles.  
“Didn’t I guess that you’d be wearing something ridiculous? I went out a bought sweat clothes for you,” holding out the bag. “Loose-fitting and throw away,” he states.  
I inwardly groan, taking the contents out and examining them. Don’t scoff Mycroft, I say to myself. Play the game.  
The detective is sporting dark blue baggy pants and pullover made from polyester. Mine are of the same material, and the notion that this cloth would be against my body sends a shiver through me.  
“I brought a change of clothing and chocolate candies for later. I’ll place them in the parlor while you change.”He leaves me, full of confidence, while I clench my jaw in anxiety.

* * *

On the patio, Gregory is filling guns with the water from a bucket. Finished, he places them on the table and refills the bucket.  
I stand in the doorway to admire him, to watch his movements. I admit that I cherish the time we spend together and wonder if he welcomes my presence as well. The man is very well-liked by his co-police workers. He could easily find someone to occupy him other than myself.  
He turns, with surprise on his face. He did not know that I was inspecting him.   
“No shooting directly in the face and up close--,”  
Scoffing, “ Gregory, I know weaponry regulations.”  
“Right. So, pick up your weapon and let’s begin,” his grin idiotically wide.  
Half trotting, half walking he steps onto the mowed green grounds.  
I commence running towards the line of trees, giving myself every chance to take cover. Reluctantly I heft the rifle and fire a volley of water. I’m taken aback at the range of this instrument. I lay on the ground behind a log, in full combat mode, ready to establish dominance. The gun is strange in my hands. It shoots but not with a recoil. The uninterrupted hiss of the water and the spray backfiring onto my hands and clothing emphasizes it’s only a toy.  
Gregory has advanced towards me, all the while spraying but not reaching his target. He does not take, and that allows me to run a steady stream, saturating his clothes. I avoid his head and concentrate on his body. Switching from the log to a tree, Gregory achieves a hit on my chest. He bobs and weaves but stays out in the open. I give him the opportunity to take cover, but he yells out, " Come on, Mycroft. Get out of hiding, and don’t be afraid to get wet," moving closer to the line of trees.  
I run out from the tree, duck-walking, shooting, hitting the man several times, and dip behind the dried-out fountain. I consider my next move. Running towards him, I analyze the situation. I could throw him to the ground, removing the weapon from his hand. To be in close contact, his body against my body, rolling on the ground. The mere thought reverberates, and arousal creeps throughout my length.  
Greg has been continuously firing, even knowing that I’m beyond his reach. “Halt. I’m all out of ammo,” he yells, hands and gun in the air.  
I’m breathing hard, but not from the exertion of the game. I walk closer towards the patio and inhale deep breathes, driving away any visions of our closeness.

“Look at you, Mycroft. You’re hardly wet. Stop hiding. Let’s be out in the open with each other,” his face hidden by his back.   
Why would he say what he did in the way he did?   
Catching my breath, I face out to the expanse of the terrain, out at the fountain now filled with dirty water and leaves.  
“Ahhh,” I yell as I feel ice cold water cascading down my face, onto my shoulders, and over my body.  
Gregory is laughing and gasps out, “that makes us even now. Both soaked.”  
My inner self is offended, nauseated. How dare he! Through gritted teeth, I rage, “Get out--get out.”  
His laugh drops, “So sorry, Mycroft. I was just--.”  
“Get out,” twisting about, my hand thrusts out to push him, and he falls onto a chair and down to the ground.

Mopping my face and hair in the kitchen, he steps into my view.“Jeez, Mycroft, I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t think--,”  
Confronting him, my fists tighten to lash out, I instead bellow out, “No, you didn’t think. Get out--now,” A guttural roar issues from deep inside, the loss of my dignity conquering all my reasoning.

* * *

The hot water is running in the hot tub, all the jets going full force while I discard the sopping wet clothing. I step in and slide down to my chin and reflect on my reaction. He offended me! He treated me as one of his minions. He took my dignity! My dignity! And what is it worth if --.Of what purpose is my dignity for? To maintain control and be above the chaos of the outside world. I must relentlessly master the small space around myself.  
The bathwater cools, and I lift myself out of the tub, take my robe, fling it around my shoulders, place my arms in, and tie the band. I shuffle into my bedroom, open my walk-in closet, and stare. For the first time, I study the inside. For this is me in this closet.  
Suits, all handmade, all three-piece. All in unimaginative colors. Three skin-tight workout attire hang on the padded, wood hangers. The drawers, opening them, shrinking from the dullness. The folded shirts, handmade, tiresome colors. Ties hang from racks; belts are strung out on hooks. No casual wear. Nothing that would scream--play.

I am a dull man. A worn-out, unimaginative individual. Living the same routine over and over. Over and over. Would it be advantageous to apologize? Would it change my life? Would I be happy--wait, Mycroft--. What is contentment? Could I carry on with my old ways? Or do I seek a new chapter?  
This controversy rages within me continuously during the dark hours. I rise out of bed, put on my robe and slippers, drink tea, roam in the house from room to room, drink whiskey, and stare out the windows. Stare at the borders of my acreage. Borders. Do I undertake to remove that particular border that I’ve wrapped around me?

* * *

“Mister Holmes, Mister Holmes,” my butler is shaking me awake. I grasp the fact that I’ve fallen asleep in my chair. “ I’m fine, Denby, fine. I’ll have breakfast.”  
“Sir, it’s almost noon. Everyone’s been worried for you,” giving me space.  
“I'm fine. Tea, an egg, and toast will do. I'll have it in my bedroom while dressing.”  
He nods, giving me a sideways glance and moves out of the room.  
Upstairs, I open up my closet and remove a grey pin-stripe suit with the vest. A dark green shirt and a green and black marbled tie.  
As I’m dressing and eating, I’m full of self-loathing and loneliness. My wealth, this huge house, the clothing, my reputation, my authority. Of what value is it if there’s no one else to appreciate, no one to share it with.

* * *

The house is too quiet. I miss the kids running around, the little quarrels, their laugh. I can still hear Beverly’s voice and those low sounds she makes, her humming, her off-key singing. But it’s during the hours of the night when I rise out of bed, put on my robe and slippers, drink tea, drink whiskey, roam in this little house, going from room to room, and stare out the windows. Greg Lestrade, of what value is your life if there’s no one else to appreciate, no one to share it with.

I make myself tea, an egg, and toast and set it on my bedroom dresser, getting a shirt, trousers out of the closet I once shared with Beverly.

* * *

I must call Gregory. First, to apologize for my behavior and next to experience the possibility of whatever the fates throw at me. My cell phone is in my trembling hand, and I hear it ring. Once--twice--. At the same time, my doorbell chimes and I open the door.

* * *

I must see Mycroft to apologize for my behavior and to see whether this attraction could become something more substantial, and drive to Mycroft's house. I step out of the car and walked to the door, ring the chimes and at the same time my phone rings.


End file.
